This Is A Story
by obliquedge
Summary: This is a story narrated by me, Hermione Granger. This is a story not so much about myself as it is about one boy whom I’ve come to love. A story told by Hermione about the enemy she's come to love. Oneshot. Dhr.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters involved in the series. But if JKRowling wishes to give Harry Potter to me as a present, however, I think I'd gladly except. :D

Summary: This is a story about Hermione Granger and how she's come to love a guy she thought she'd always hate.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, I've been kind of busy - hope you guys all understand! To make up for the long period of no updates, here is a oneshot that sort of popped into my head one day while listening to Taylor Swift's "I'd Lie" on repeat. Presumably, bits of that song have seeped into this story, but that's hardly a bad thing. :D The song is really beautiful and I advise everyone to go get her album.

Perhaps I might do another one in Draco's point of view, but that all depends on what you guys think, and whether or not inspiration strikes me. :D

Now all that's been said and done, please read and review!

Update 251207: Thanks to a review by ilovehp15, I've changed the ending by taking away the last line. I previously thought doing so would make the story just hang in the air, but after multiple reads I think it's fine. Enjoy!

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This is a story narrated by me, Hermione Granger.

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This is a story not so much about myself as it is about one boy whom I've come to love. It's never easy to write about things that have happened to you, because there is no way you can do justice to everything you've ever experienced. Believe me, a lot of things are radically different when you actually go through them.

No one understands why I love him – I just do. I barely even understand why I love him, myself. Our fates have always been to hate each other with a passion, to let ourselves become arch enemies, nothing less. It's the fate of two people who are more different than anyone can believe, yet more similar than they'd ever admit. When two people like that come together, the one thing they can do is to hate each other. But then again, I've never really believed in succumbing to your fate.

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This is a story about my enemy.

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Don't ask me how we became friends. They say war changes a person and a person's perception of the world. I say that's bull.

He came to help us during the war, risking his personal safety. I had always believed this to be for selfish reasons – he followed the side he thought would win eventually. True, on the surface it had seemed as though we were losing terribly. But I've always known that he's smarter than that – he knows how to look beyond the surface and figure out what something is completely about. I was a hundred percent certain that he was a selfish bastard who didn't think about anyone except himself.

The war changed nothing about how I saw him. He escalated from a egoistical, self-centered boy to an egoistical, self-centred man. What really made me see him differently had nothing in the least to do with the war.

I realised he wasn't a bad guy one day after the war. My best friends had long before befriended this man I thought to be a monster. To be sure, it wasn't something that sat to nicely with me, but what could I do? Falling out with my friends over this man wasn't something I was at all prepared to do.

We had dinner at Mrs Weasley's house. It was a commonplace, unremarkable dinner, but I will never forget the incidents of that night. That night showed me a completely different side of him. Perhaps I've always been far too blind to see what's always been staring me in the face, but it was that night that I finally accepted the facts that I've always been ignoring.

He offered to wash the dishes. I thought he was play-acting and trying to pretend that he was a good man, so I rejected this offer. He rejected my rejection and started washing the dishes – without magic, mind you, because Mrs Weasley said that plates were more susceptible to breaking if you didn't have a physical hold on them.

After this, I told him he wasn't fooling me. I told him I knew he was still a selfish bastard. Surprisingly, he replied that he couldn't care less what I thought, because all that mattered was how he saw himself. He told me that he found it so much easier to live with himself if he lived exactly as he wanted to, with no care for how others saw him.

He wasn't lying. I knew it. I smiled at him.

He smiled back.

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This is a story about crossing barriers.

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We crossed into a period of silent tolerance. I'd nod him a greeting; he'd smile back cryptically. We'd barely talk except to converse on some topics of little importance – the weather, or the colour of Mrs Weasley's new curtains.

It wasn't easy to become friends.

Our relationship resembled a meter: so many thousands of tiny events would contribute to a little improvement in the way we saw each other, until one thing finally broke through the barrier. That was how we became friends.

We bonded, believe it or not, over Bridge. I hadn't the foggiest idea how to play the game, but my friends had never taught me because they said they had no confidence in explaining it all to me. I told him I was a dunce at card games. He told me that he was a dunce too, but that he'd try.

For ten games straight, we lost. I was freaking out and completely sure that I was pulling him down. He told me I was being stupid – I was smarter than so many people, and I'd get it very soon. He explained everything again, and he told me to hold the cards and play the game by myself. Whenever I'd try to ask him for advice, he told me to do what I thought was right, and that he'd always be there to yell if I did something fatally wrong.

The next game, we won.

I hugged him.

And something clicked.

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This is a story about change.

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He told me so many things; he told me about his day and the people he'd met. He told me his favourite songs and colours and food and hobbies. He told me about his family, his friends and the guppies that had died two days after he'd gotten them. He talked to me about everything I was willing to listen to. In other words, he talked to me about everything under the sun, because I was willing to listen to anything.

But listening to him was horribly difficult, because I could just drown in his eyes.

One day, he told me a joke about a dinosaur, a dodo bird and a pig. After he said the punch line, I realised I hadn't a single idea what the joke was about. So I faked a laugh. He grinned and slapped my shoulder.

I had spent the entire time staring at his eyes, because they are absolutely gorgeous. Some people say his eyes are slate grey, others say they're the hue of silver. To me, they're ever changing. One moment, they're the grey of approaching storm clouds. Another moment, and they've changed into the swirling pool of mercury. Then I blink and I see silver tinged with the slightest hint of playful blue, or even a glassy mix of the Slytherin colours.

Then I realised that his eyes changed according to how his felt. Suddenly, I knew exactly when he was angry, upset, happy, playful, pensive or melancholic.

At that same moment, I realised I'd fallen in love.

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This is a story about comfort.

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He told me he'd never fall in love, running his fingers through his hair. He said it so matter-of-factly, half-smiling and half-smiling, as he sat on the chair on the veranda of the Burrow. I laughed, secretly hoping he was wrong. But I remain silent otherwise, because I won't let him know how much I love him. I won't let him know that I know him better than I know myself.

For years I waited in silence, watching him and remembering every single detail about him. It's not that I do this consciously. It's just that I can't seem to get him out of my mind. While everything else just comes and goes, he sticks firmly in my mind.

It's all made worse by the fact that he's so close to me. I know all his secrets, and he's always coming to me with more. Yet there's no way I can push him away in an act of self-preservation, because he's so irresistible.

There was this once, when we were all living in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place where Harry had invited everyone to, that I had noticed something about him change. No one knew what had happened – I don't think anyone even realised that he was upset when he placed the newspaper down on the table very calmly and walked up the stairs back to his room.

Everyone ate their breakfasts, but I checked the newspaper. On the third page was a small box with the kind of news only I knew would affect him. His father was dead.

I went up to his room and knocked. There was no answer, but I went in anyway. He was seated on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I knew he was distressed. Even though he was so good at pretending everything was perfectly fine, he couldn't pretend in front of me. He had told me far too many things for me not to understand him.

He heard me enter, and he sensed me sit down next to him. No one would expect the kind of trauma his father's death would put him through – his father was not a good man or father, and the end he had received after a prolonged stay at Azkaban was merely something the person on the street would dismiss. People would tell him that his father had simply gotten his just deserts.

But it was his father, after all.

And I told him all that, and I hugged him, and I stroked his hair. And he cried. He never let anyone see him cry, but that moment he cried and cried and cried. His tears were so silent that no one could tell he was crying.

So, while he cried on my shoulder, I reminded myself not to let anyone see how much I wish I could be there for him forever, and that I'd be the shoulder he'd always turn to.

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This is a story about a spark of magic.

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I know a secret about him – he plays the piano. He's never told anyone about this because he said playing the piano was girly. Personally, I think it's beautiful. But I told him he was being a prat, and I asked him to play something for me.

So he did, and the piece he chose to play was Moonlight Sonata.

At that moment, I thought I'd reveal everything to him. I thought there was no way I could hide my feelings anymore. The way I stared at him, seated at the black grand piano just playing his heart out – I thought the look in my eyes would have been so obvious.

But he stood up after completing his piece, and he glanced at me. Tears were glistening in my eyes, and it was all I could do not to run up and kiss him. He looked at me, long and hard, told me I was "such a girl", before smiling cryptically and turning away.

If only I could tell him that he makes my breath catch every time he looks at me.

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This is a story about hope.

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I'm never going to be good enough for him. Everyday I wake up, and I see his face in my mind, just smiling gently at me like he always does. And he's gorgeous, and he's sweet, and he's completely flawless. At least in my eyes.

I hope miracles do happen.

One day, maybe I'll be the one he chooses. So I dress up like I always do, and I make sure I look presentable. I meet him and I smile. He smiles back and I wish he'd always be there, smiling at me and making me laugh. Because even though I'll never forget what he looks like when he smile, I still wish that smile can be mine.

One day, maybe I'll make him smile as much as he makes me smile. Maybe he'll see me and feel like all his wishes have come true. Maybe he'll feel exactly how I feel every time I see him – like the world could end, but I'd die happy just to have seen his smile.

It kills me to keep waiting there in silence, it really does. But I never dare to speak up, because I don't think he loves me the way I love him, and I'm afraid I can't even do something as simple as stand here, watching him, if I do anything to jeopardise our friendship.

If he asks me if I love him, I'd lie.

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This is a story about love.

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He asked me if I loved him. I told him he was out of his mind.

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This is a story about fighting for love.

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He asked me again. I gave in and said I did.

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This is a story about how love can create miracles.

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He kissed me.

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This is a story about me, Hermione Granger, and the one I love – Draco Malfoy.


End file.
